


Wires

by LtTanyaBoone



Category: NCIS
Genre: Choose Your Own Character, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-09
Updated: 2009-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:19:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LtTanyaBoone/pseuds/LtTanyaBoone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"As he saw the blanket inside the incubator move slightly, he stopped dead in his tracks. The plastic box itself looked small among the big machines, and he did not even want to imagine how his son, how his little boy would look."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wires

_Disclaimers:_ NCIS, the rights to the show and its characters do not belong to me. No money was made by this. The song "Wires" belongs to Athlete, I do not own that one, either. _  
Spoilers:_ none really, AU I guess __  
Pairing: het, I leave you to take your pick.

* * *

He did not care that he broke every traffic law there was. The streets were packed with cars, and he avoided collisions only narrowly. He did not care what happened to him right now. He wanted, no, he needed to get to the hospital. He had to get there as soon as he could. It could still be too late, no matter how hard he tried. It was Christmas. And for the first time in months, perhaps even years, he was scared shitless.

The call had come as a surprise. He had been at a scene, and when he had seen the unfamiliar number in the display, his stomach had clenched. Answering it, he had felt his throat constricting. He had not been able to draw a deep breath. Moved on auto pilot after hanging up, simply getting to the car. Turning the key, he had snapped out of his daze. Fear had filled him. Fear of losing the best thing that ever happened to him, the two people that meant the most, one of them he had not even had the chance to meet yet. He could not lose them, not yet, not when everything had been perfect just a few hours ago.

He parked his car - more like, he turned off the ignition and left it standing there- and rushed into the ER. It took years for the nurse to find out where his wife was, and even longer to find the post-delivery ward. In front of the room, he stopped and took several deep breaths before poking his head around the corner and slowly walking in.

She was looking extremely pale, seemingly being swallowed by the cushions. His gaze flickered to the heart monitor, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Her heart was beating, she was alive. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead, causing her to stir in her slumber. When she opened her eyes, it took her a while to recognize him. When she did, tears sprang to her eyes, and a strangled sob escaped her, apologies making it past her lips at the speed of light as he pulled her close and let her cry.

Car accident. It was strange, really, given the way he had driven to get to them may have caused more pain for other families. It had not been her fault, she had simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Another car had hit a patch of black ice and rammed her vehicle. She was frightened, terrified, afraid what answers they may get to their questions.

When the doctor came in, he felt that familiar grip of fear take a firm hold of his heart again. He tried to take small and deep breaths and continued rubbing the back of his wife in gentle, soothing circles.

They were carefully optimistic. Seven months was not a death sentence any more. Technology had evolved a great deal, they were doing everything in their power to help him. He was small, but within the above average range of premature children delivered at his week of gestation.

_He?_

Yes, he, they had a son. A son. A miracle son, born on Christmas Eve. The next days would be crucial, but right now, everything was great, given the circumstances. Of course, they could see him. Well, he could, they did not want his wife up and about right now, not that few hours after surgery.

He kissed her, stroking her cheek, reassuring her of his love and that he did not blame her in any way. Promised to take lots and lots of pictures. Then allowed the doctor to lead him away.

On the way to the NICU, he did not pay attention to the ramblings and warnings of the doctor. Half of it was medical babble he would not have been able to understand, anyway. He just wanted to get to his son, to his precious little son, just in case, in case it was the only chance he would get. He did not want his little son to be alone of Christmas Eve, he needed to be there, to stroke his cheek, tell him how much he loved him, that he would never let him go again.

Halfway down the hallway, the beeper of the doctor - Doctor Emma Anderson - sprang to life. She glanced at it, and suddenly broke out into a run. He stared at her for a second before realizing that this could be about his son. The son he had not met before, the precious little gift they had just started to prepare for, the Christmas gift that was delivered way too early. He ran after her, down the hospital corridors, a flight of stairs, stumbling into the NICU after the doctor - Emma - and nearly took out his gun to shoot the nurse that held him back.

No, he would not calm down, he wanted to see his son. Screw hospital policy, screw the rules, he needed to see that he was alright. Seeing that she was getting nowhere, she pulled him outside the ward, and he almost, almost pushed her down the next flight of stairs. She did not understand, it was not her child whose life was on the line in there.

But it was not his, it was a girl. A girl, he had a son, a boy, it was not his son that was in distress, thank God, it was another child, oh Lord, it was another child.

She handed him forms to fill out, he only filled out the absolutely necessary things, then scrubbed and scrubbed away the dirt on his hands and arms before he was allowed to enter, having to pull a stupid coat over his clothes, but he didn't care any more, he just wanted to see his son, touch him, make sure that he was alright. A tear escaped him at the sight of all the machines in the room, the constant beep and blobb and slurp of them. He was led down to the corner of the room, thankfully away from Emma and the baby in distress.

As he saw the blanket inside the incubator move slightly, he stopped dead in his tracks. The plastic box itself looked small among the big machines, and he did not even want to imagine how his son, how his little boy would look.

A warm hand on his arm, telling him to take as much time as he needed. She stayed with him and guided him to the box, and then he saw him for the first time, soft, pink flesh, naked, covered only by a diaper and all that tubes and wires, but they did not cover him, they went into him, and oh God they went into him, into the tiny body of his son, that was his son lying there, tubes in his nose. The lights were dimmed, one of his eyes was taped shut, the other shut tightly by himself. The tiny fists rested next to his small head, he was so tiny and fragile, to small and oh, so alone in that huge box with the gigantic machines surrounding him.

Carefully, he reached inside, his hand shaking in fear and anxiety and wonder. He ran his finger over the tiny cheek, the brush of a feather, really, but he was warm, he was so warm, and so soft, and so tiny and small, and so alone and lost inside that box. The tiny fists curled tighter - and oh, the little fingers and look, he had fingernails, and toenails - and were put into the air, shaking as the mouth opened and, what was that, a pathetic mewl, his son was mewling, he was crying, he was crying, he was alive and unhappy and crying.

_What did I do, I didn't, I wasn't, and he, why is he, how can I-_

There was nothing he could do, except be there, hold the fragile hand, let him know he was not alone. He swallowed against the lump in his throat and brought his hand up to feel the stubble on his cheek, in contrast to the soft skin he had just touch. And it came back wet, and he was crying, and his son was crying, and they were both so pathetic, standing and lying there on Christmas Eve.

And then he opened his one eye, and the mewling, the crying, it stopped, and the tiny fists continued shaking. And he was staring; he was fascinated by the way the dim light reflected in the eye, reminding him of the way his wife's eyes had sparkled when they had put up the tree a day ago, how the lights had reflected in her eyes, too.

And then he really looked, he really saw his son, the full lips and tiny nose, so much like his mother's, his ears that were like his own, the dimple on his cheek that reminded him of his father. He had a son, he was a father, and his little boy was there, born on Christmas Eve, and he was alive and ten toes and fingers and two eyes and a heartbeat and he was perfect and he would always love him and teach him everything there was to know, and he would never be alone like he had been the last hours, he would not let it happen, because he was there, he was there now, and he would not leave his side.

And all of a sudden, he felt light and free. The lump in his throat just disappeared, and he stared into the eyes, the eye of his son, and the tiny child stared back, though they would tell him later that he did not see anything, but he knew he was looking at him right there.

A smile came to his face, the first one since he had gotten the call, and he allowed himself to grin at the boy in happiness.

"Welcome to the world, Peanut." he whispered into the dimly lit room, only for his son to hear, only to welcome him into this cruel and cold world, and tell him that he cared, because he loved him so much, so much it hurt and was not funny anymore, so much that he would never survive if he lost him, never.

_fin._


End file.
